Of the late strife. Suddenly one cried, “Hush!
Comrades, I hear a moaning in the bush.”
“’Tis but a tolling bell,” the rest averred,
“From Saint Martin’s or from Maussano heard,
Or the north wind the dwarf-oak limbs a-swaying.”
But, ere they spake, all were their steps delaying,
Arrested by so piteous a groan
It rent the very heart. And every one
Cried, “Holy Jesus! Here has been foul play!”
Then crossed themselves, and gently took their way
Toward the sound. Ah, what a sight there was!
Vincen, supine upon the stony grass,—
The grass blood-stained, the trampled earth besprent
With willow rods. His shirt to ribbons rent,
Stabbed in the breast, left on the moor alone,
Had lain the poor lad through the night now gone,
With but the stars to watch. But the dim ray
Of early dawn, as ebbed his life away,
Falling upon his lids had oped them wide.
Straightway the good Samaritans turned aside
From their home-path, stooped, and a hammock made
Of their three cloaks, thereon the victim laid,
Then bare him tenderly upon their arms
Unto the nearest door,—the Lotus-Farm’s....
O friends,—Provençal poets brave and dear,
Who love my songs of other days to hear!
You, Roumanille, who blend with songs you sing
Tears, girlish laughter, and the breath of spring;
And you, proud Aubanel, who stray where quiver
The changing lights and shades of wood and river,
To soothe a heart oppressed by love’s fond dream;
You, Crousillat, who your belovèd stream,
The bright Touloubro, make more truly famous
Than did the grim star-gazer Nostradamus;
And you, Anselme, who see, half-sad, half-smiling,
Fair girls under the trellised arbours whiling
Their hours away; and you, my Paul, the witty,
And peasant Tavan, who attune your ditty
Unto the crickets’ chirrup, while you peer
Wistful at your poor pickaxe; and most dear,
Adolphe Dumas, who when Durance is deep
With his spring flood, come back your thoughts to steep,
And warm the Frenchman at Provençal suns,
’Twas you who met my own Mirèio once
At your great Paris,—met her tenderly,
Where she had flown, impetuous, daring, shy;
And last Garcin, brave son of a brave sire,
Whose soul mounts upward on a wind of fire;—
Upbear me with your holy breath as now
I climb for the fair fruit on that high bough!...
The swineherds paused at Master Ramoun’s door,
Crying, “Good-morrow! Yonder, on the moor,
We found this poor lad wounded in the breast.
’Twere well that his sore hurt were quickly drest.”
So laid their burden on the broad, flat stone.
They tell Mirèio, to the garden gone
To gather fruit, who, basket on her side,
Fled wildly to the spot. Thither, too, hied
The labourers all; but she, her basket falling,
Stretched forth her hands on Mother Mary calling.